


Harry Potter and the Professor's Possession

by Ptrevanei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptrevanei/pseuds/Ptrevanei
Summary: Harry Potter is an extraordinary boy living in an ordinary home, when his life is turned upside down by an odd letter and a witch. Soon, he is neck-deep in a new, hidden, world full of wonders, but also dangers.





	1. In which a boy receives a letter and learns of his extraordinary talent.

Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Dursley were, at first glance, very normal, and were perfectly happy to keep it that way, thank you very much. They lived in a quiet neighbourhood in Little Whinging, a small utopian suburban neighbourhood. Their perfectly manicured lawn was the pride and joy of Mrs. Dursley, much to the continued annoyance of her neighbours, who never understood how the more than slightly sharpish woman had time to micromanage her garden. The house at 4 Privet Drive was the epitome of normal appearances: one front door (white), one porch (enclosed with mosquito netting), one garden (perfectly maintained), containing one family (normal, thank you very much). Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were hiding an unfortunately large secret - one so large that, while hidden, it had to be kept in the cupboard under the stairs. This secret's name was Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was a rather small boy at ten years old, and was shockingly pale. He had jet-black hair which refused to behave by conventional norms, whose bangs fell over his forehead and into his piercing, and, according to the Dursleys, more than slightly unnerving green eyes. Harry's hair was long at the front for a reason - to hide the scar on his forehead ("It's just so…abnormal," shuddered Mrs. Petunia Dursley), which was shaped like a bolt of lightning. Harry spent his time in the Dursleys' house, for the most part, pretending not to exist and doing chores for his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. These were Harry's only living relations, though how he came to be related to these people he could not imagine. Where Harry was small, Uncle Vernon and his son Dudley ("Dinky Diddikums" to his mother) were large. Where Harry had a pleasant manner, the Dursleys were sharp, conniving, and disagreeable. Harry was convinced that Aunt Petunia had gotten her long neck by spending so much time peering over her neighbours' hedges, eavesdropping. All things told, Harry was not sure exactly how it was that these people were his Aunt and Uncle, or by what relation that was possible - Harry knew neither his mother or his father, having been set on the Dursleys' doorstep shortly after his parents died. Harry had attempted to ask Aunt Petunia about them, but quickly discovered that the key to a peaceful and painless existence for him at Number 4 was to not ask questions.

Harry was used to strange things happening around him. He could never explain why, for instance, he had run away from a gang of bullies and appeared on the roof of his school, or why his hair had grown back overnight after a particularly frightful haircut attempted by Aunt Petunia. This made the Dursleys, who craved normality (or, in Harry's case, the appearance thereof) above all else, dislike Harry all the more. All this combined to surprise Harry all the more when he, yes Harry himself, received mail the summer before his eleventh birthday. One morning in July - a very hot July at that - the Dursleys were sitting at the table enjoying their breakfast while Harry scurried about, fetching bacon or orange juice. Uncle Vernon turned to Dudley. "Dudley, fetch the mail please."

"Aw daddy, make Harry do it." Dudley was thoroughly engrossed in his eggs and bacon.

"Harry, fetch the mail."

"Make Dudley do it." Harry knew he was pressing the limits, but it was worth a shot, wasn't it?

"Smack him with your Smeltings Stick, Dudley." Uncle Vernon was, of course, referring to the swagger stick that came as part of the uniform for Dudley's new school, Smeltings Academy. With that, Harry was off to the front door, where the mail lay in a pile on the floor. As he sorted through the mail - a postcard, a pile of bills, a pamphlet - he noticed an odd-looking envelope on the bottom. It was made from thicker paper than the rest, and Harry thought it looked like parchment, but that couldn't be right, could it? As he looked at the envelope more closely, he noticed something very strange indeed. The addressee was, surprisingly, Mr. H. J. Potter, the Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. This was written in a loopy scrawl, and just when Harry thought it couldn't be any stranger, in green ink. He passed out the mail to Uncle Vernon, keeping his letter to himself in the hopes, however futile, that his relations would be too busy eating their breakfast to notice.

Unfortunately, Dudley was paying slightly more attention than Harry perhaps gave him credit for. "Daddy, Harry has a letter!" Harry winced, and Uncle Vernon turned a rather violent shade of pink.

"Dudley, that's preposterous. Who would want to send that freak a letter?" While Uncle Vernon chortled away to himself behind his newspaper, and Dudley puzzled over this question, Harry slipped out of the kitchen and into his cupboard. He tore open the heavy envelope and struggled through the low light to read the green lettering:

 

Dear Mr. Potter,

It is our pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed your list of required equipment and texts. A professor from the School shall be visiting shortly to confirm your registration and answer any questions you may have.

Yours,  
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Harry blinked. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore? This was, by far, the strangest name he had ever come across. He was sure that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would not take well to his letter. The raven-haired youth sat in his cupboard under the stairs for as long as he thought he would be able to get away with. When he emerged, he found the world outside his cupboard to be even stranger than in it. Standing in the middle of Aunt Petunia's pristine kitchen was a tall woman wearing what could only be described as a rather battered witch's hat, and a forest-green cloak. Uncle Vernon, who had turned a rather impressive shade of puce, seemed to have been struck dumb by whatever the woman had said. She seemed to sense his eyes on her, and turned to face the boy. "Hello, Mr. Potter." Harry couldn't do anything but stare up at the woman. She continued to speak. "My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I am a professor at Hogwart's School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. I trust you have received your letter?" Here she paused and looked at Harry inquiringly. He nodded again. "Then I am here to make sure you understand what is in it, and help you purchase your supplies."

Uncle Vernon seemed to have recovered his voice. "He'll not be going! I won't pay for him to go to some freak school and learn magic tricks!"

Professor McGonagall fixed Uncle Vernon with a cold glare, reminding Harry of the way a cat eyes a particularly troublesome chihuahua. The air seemed to grow colder, and the professor appeared to become larger, looming in the doorway menacingly. "Mr. Dursley, are you truly so self-deluded and full of your own perceived worth that you think that you are in a position to stop him? If Harry wishes it, he will attend." She turned back to Harry, once more appearing for all the world like a regular, though slightly oddly dressed, woman. "So, Mr. Potter, what do you think?"

Harry, for the first time, found his voice. "Ma'am, I'd really like to go, but -" He looked at the ground, suddenly interested in his shoes. "I don't have any money to pay for it."

The elder woman's gaze softened. "Well, we'll have to see about that, won't we, Mr. Potter? Why don't I take you out for the day?" With that, Professor McGonagall offered her arm to Harry, who took it. She turned on her heel, and both she and Harry vanished in a swirl of the green cloak, leaving behind a very angry Uncle Vernon.

Harry and Professor McGonagall appeared in an alley in London. "How did you like that, Harry?" The professor looked concerned. When Harry grimaced, trying to find words to describe the feeling of being pushed through a very small tube, she let a small smile grace her visage. "What I just did is called Apparition. It's one of the things you'll learn at Hogwart's, when you're old enough, of course." She began striding toward the street, and continued speaking in her rich Scottish burr. "There are many places in London, Harry, that muggles cannot see. We are very near Diagon Alley, where you will be able to purchase all your school supplies."

"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry looked up at her with wide eyes, "but what are muggles? And isn't 'diagonally' a direction? How can I shop there?"

The Scot paused for a moment to let Harry catch up. "Wizarding folk call non-magical people 'muggles', Harry. And it is not 'diagonally', but Diagon Alley, a part of London hidden from muggles and containing a variety of wizarding shops." Her gaze softened as she took in her green-eyed charge's confusion. "You'll see soon enough, Mr Potter. Come along now, and stay close: we are going to have to be quick if we wish to make our way through the Leaky Cauldron unannounced." When Harry looked like he was about to ask another question, she added hastily, "You'll soon see for yourself, Mr Potter." And with that, she walked toward a building that Harry could have sworn had appeared out of nowhere from in between a bookstore and a record shop. A sign over the door, ratty and worn out, read The Leaky Cauldron. Professor McGonagall pulled the door open and ushered Harry inside.

The inside of the building was dark, dusty, and lit, Harry noted curiously, by torchlight. It was crowded, with people in variously coloured robes sitting at a bar and at tables scattered around the room. As McGonagall followed him in, the bartender looked up, and greeted her. "Hello, Professor. Another young one for Hogwarts?"

Professor McGonagall nodded. "Yes indeed, Tom. We'll be on our way now."

Tom smiled. "Good luck, Professor."

Harry followed the professor through to the back of the building, where the woman pulled a long stick out of one of her pockets, and tapped it on the wall. Harry eyed her dubiously, wondering how on earth a small stick might change a brick wall, but he held his tongue and waited. To his astonishment, the wall started to shift. A hole, first small, but growing rapidly, appeared in the middle. With many scraping noises and chips falling, an archway appeared. Harry was speechless. The elderly Scot gazed down at him, an amused twinkle in her eyes. "Mr. Potter, welcome to Diagon Alley." She stepped forward, walking Harry, still beyond words, into a new world. Diagon Alley was teeming with activity. Harry could scarcely keep up with Professor McGonagall, who was cutting through the crowds at a brisk, efficient clip. Everywhere he looked, something extraordinary was being sold ("Newt eyes, twenty sickles a jar!"), consumed (was that a real frog?), or displayed ("That's a Nimbus Two Thousand - the fastest racing broom yet!"). As he looked ahead, he spotted a large building made entirely of white marble looming ahead of him. Lettered in black rock above the gleaming golden doors was Gringott's Bank. The scotswoman paused, and gazed at Harry over her spectacles. "This, Mr. Potter, is the wizarding bank. It is owned and operated by goblins. These creatures, while small, do not enjoy the company of wizards. Please stay close." Harry nodded, and followed her up to the teller, which was occupied by a creature unlike any the boy had seen before. It was short, and squat, with a long, pointed nose, thin black hair, and spindly, grasping fingers that each finished in a black, pointed nail. The creature (a goblin, Harry supposed) had coal-black eyes that sparkled, as if lit with an inner fire. The aging professor stepped up to the counter. "Mr. Harry Potter would like to make a withdrawal."

The goblin looked at Harry, who gulped, and stepped closer to McGonagall. "Does Mr. Harry Potter have his key?" The goblin, whose name tag read "Griphook", sported a positively predatory grin. Harry blinked. Key? He looked up at the professor questioningly, and saw that she was holding a very small golden key out to Griphook, a twinkle in her eye. Once the goblin had examined the key (very thoroughly from Harry's perspective), he returned it to McGonagall, who in turn handed it to Harry and told him to keep it safe. They then turned and followed Griphook, who bade them into what appeared to be a mine cart, and told them to hold on. It was a good thing, Harry decided, that the diminutive goblin had told both himself and the professor (who, he noted, looked like she had been here before) to grab tight. The words had barely left Griphook’s mouth when the cart took off abruptly, sliding along rails that were so black they looked like they had been carved out of obsidian. The cart picked up speed quickly, jostling its occupants violently, and almost throwing Harry out. He was very thankful to be sitting next to the experienced professor, as she made sure to keep an arm on him at all times. Eventually the unlikely and somewhat, in Harry’s opinion, unsafe vehicle stopped outside a platform that bore the number 687. Griphook clambered out of the cart and grabbed the lamp that he had attached to the pole at the side of the cart while McGonagall ushered Harry onto the landing, and Harry, looking about, saw an immense cavern, seemingly bottomless, with tracks crisscrossing every direction into the darkness that surrounded them. Turning toward the wall, he frowned at what appeared to be a plain dark metal door set into the stone of the wall, with a single golden keyhole adorning its surface. Griphook asked for Harry’s key again, and, having received it, slid it into the lock and performed a complicated series of twists before stepping back, removing Harry’s key, and pulling the door open.


	2. In which Harry learns of his incredible fortune and goes shopping.

Harry nearly fainted.

Piled deep into the room were stacks of gold, silver, and bronze coins. Harry could clearly see, even from the threshold, that he was, apparently, quite well-off. He was, naturally, surprised when Griphook mentioned that this vault was simply a Trust in his name that was refilled to 50,000 galleons each year. Harry turned to McGonagall. “Excuse me, professor, but what’s a galleon?”

“A galleon, Mr Potter, is one of these gold coins.” The Scot picked up a large gold coin. “There are 17 sickles-” she picked up a silver coin “-in a galleon, and 29 knuts in a sickle.” She pointed to a pile of the bronze coins. “You shall need about 160 galleons to purchase everything you need for school, Mr Potter. May I also recommend an additional 50 galleons in case you decide to purchase anything else?”

Harry nodded, and scooped the required number of gold coins, along with his vault key, into a bag that Griphook handed him.

After an equally thrilling ride back up to the surface, Harry and Professor McGonagall exited the bank, and Harry bade Griphook a good day, which caused him to regard the new wizard strangely, then shake his head and return to his work. Harry and the professor strolled off down the alley, the transfiguration instructor guiding Harry along, as he was far too busy taking in the new sights to watch where he was walking. Most of the day was passed looking for potion supplies (“Why do I need a pewter cauldron and not copper?”) and textbooks (“These books must weigh more than I do!”). Finally the odd pair stopped at a small shop, and Harry looked up to see what this shop was. The sign read: Ollivander’s: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Harry gave the shop a strange look, but was prodded in by McGonagall, who followed him in. A small bell tinkled against the door, and Harry stepped into the shop. Sunbeams pierced the musty darkness of the shop, and a rickety chair stood by the door. McGonagall sat down and let out a sigh of relief. Just as Harry was about to ask her if she was sure they were in the right shop (this one seemed rather abandoned), a man appeared behind the counter. Harry could only make sense of this man’s appearance by comparing him to a man he remembered learning about in school - Albert Einstein. The man, whom Harry guessed was Mr. Ollivander, gave him a strange look.

“I was beginning to wonder when I would see you, Mr. Potter.” Harry gave a start, and the old man chuckled. “I remember selling your parents their wands, Mr. Potter. You look exactly like your father did at your age - except for your eyes. You have your mother’s eyes.” Harry looked down, studying his shoes, and didn’t notice the measuring tape jump off the desk until he felt it measuring the spaces between his fingers. He jumped, trying to shake it off, but the professor merely told him to be calm. Ollivander had disappeared into the back of the shop, and seemed to be making a great deal of noise. Meanwhile, the tape had spanned Harry’s chest and seemed determined to be a boa constrictor in function if not size before the wandsmith called it off. Apparently the old man had gathered the information he needed, because he wandered off into the shelves of wands and emerged a few moments later with five long boxes and two or three dust bunnies. Mr. Ollivander’s long, spidery fingers caressed the first box as he took off the lid, though Harry failed to see what the to-do was about - it looked like an ordinary stick. He picked it up, though, and stared at it until the man gave an impatient snort. “Go on then, wave it around a bit!” Harry did, feeling very silly, until he noticed that the professor’s chair had started to trot around the room. The green-eyed boy gasped, and set down the wand, before apologizing to the elder Scot.

“Not to worry, Mr. Potter,” she assured him, a twinkle in her eye. “I have seen much worse than a chair ride in this shop!” She and Ollivander shared a small chuckle before the wandsmith passed Harry another wand to try. This time, a vase exploded rather violently when waved at by Harry. The next three wands had much the same results - any object waved at proceeded to cause a great deal of damage or make a mess. Strangely, Harry thought that Mr. Ollivander was quite pleased that none of these wands had given the desired result, though he hadn’t the faintest idea of what that result might be.

“A tricky customer, eh?” Mr. Ollivander breathed delightedly. “Not to worry, not to worry, we’ll find you a wand here somewhere...” He vanished into the back of his shop again, muttering to himself. When he reemerged, he had only one box in his hands. After reverently setting it on the counter, and sliding the lid back, he gently picked it up and handed it to Harry. As the boy wrapped his fingers around it, he felt himself buffeted by a strange wind, and the wand shot a trail of of sparks that turned into golden birds.

McGonagall gasped. “Fawkes!” Her hands went to her mouth, and she stared at Harry, who looked back at her, wondering what had happened. The professor recovered quickly, however, and nodded at him, encouraging him to talk to Ollivander, who had been muttering “Curious!” ever since the pyrotechnic display.

Harry frowned. “I’m sorry, sir, but what is curious, exactly?”

The wandsmith turned his gaze on Harry, and seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts. “Mr. Potter, I have made every wand in this shop, and I remember each and every one I sell. I think it is curious that this wand should choose you. Your wand is made of holly and a phoenix feather, and the phoenix gave me one other feather, which I put into your wand’s brother. That wand, I am sorry to say, I very much regret crafting. I sold it to a man who, over time, lost his humanity and eventually...” he bowed his head. “Eventually he gave you that scar. But I am not the one to tell you that story. I believe that you are meant to achieve greatness, Mr. Potter. After all...V-...He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did many great things with your wand’s brother. Terrible, horrific things, yes. But great.”

Harry stared at his wand. He wasn’t at all sure about being a wizard now, but he supposed that it still had to be better than living with the Dursleys.

A couple minutes later, in the Leaky Cauldron, Harry gathered up his courage and asked McGonagall the question that had been growing on his tongue since he had met Mr. Ollivander. “Professor McGonagall, ma’am, did you know my parents? What happened to them? Aunt Petunia told me that they were killed in a car crash, but I don’t think I believe her.”

The professor sighed, and Harry saw a single tear leave a trail on her cheek. “Yes, Harry, I knew them. Lily, your mother, was one of my favorite students... And James, James... was as close to a child of mine as I could have asked for. He called me ‘Aunt Minerva’ or ‘Aunt Minnie’ when he was young. If you’d like, you could call me that too, so long as I’m not teaching?” Minerva smiled gently, and now Harry was the one with tears in his eyes. He nodded, and his new aunt continued to tell him about his parents. He sat in rapt attention as she described Lily’s love of learning, her temper, and her strong morals. He laughed with her as she told him of James’ penchant for pranks, and how they had made her laugh for hours once she was alone. Like all other good things, though, the happy times had to come to an end, and McGonagall began weaving a story of war and terror - the first reign of Lord Voldemort, though she only used the name once, for Harry’s edification. A tale of the wedding she had been invited to brightened the tale momentarily, as well as stories of a little Harry’s antics. Suddenly, and all too soon, McGonagall came to the night of October 31, 1981. “You-Know-Who broke in to your home, which we thought completely protected. Based on what was found afterwards, your father tried to head the Dark Lord off while your mother ran to your room. Having killed your father, V-... Vol-...”

“Voldemort,” Harry prompted.

“Yes, he went to your room, where he found your mother standing between the door and your crib. No one knows what happened then, but at the end, your mother was dead, you had a curse scar,” her eyes flicked to Harry’s forehead, “and V-Vold-dem-mort had disappeared.”

Harry reached up and brushed his hand over his scar. “Did he die?”

Minerva’s mouth tightened. “No one knows. Many, including our government, believe that he did. That is just so much nonsense, in my opinion. I believe that he was weakened, vanquished, but not killed. I think that he exists still, by some magic unknown to most, biding his time and nursing his hate. Regardless, you are famous in the magical world because you have done what no one else could: you are the boy who lived.”

About an hour and a filling meal later, a rather dazed-looking Harry and a quietly satisfied Professor McGonagall emerged from a seedy-looking pub that very few could see, and stepped into the streets of muggle London. In his hand, Harry carried a small leather pouch that jingled softly when he moved. It had, the surprised boy knew, quite a few galleons in it - he had taken more than enough to purchase everything on his supplies list, which McGonagall had put in his new standard-issue school trunk and sent to his cupboard, though Harry imagined that it would take some arranging so that he could sleep in there too. He had refused to get a pet, as he couldn’t imagine that his relatives would allow it, and if they did, he thought that an animal’s existence at 4 Privet Drive might be even more miserable than his own. 

Once Harry had gathered his slightly worse-for-wear wits about him, he thought his trip to the bank and the shopping that followed was much more exciting than any muggle theme park he could have imagined, never having been to one, and told the professor so. At this, her demeanour darkened, and the very air around Harry seemed to thicken, while McGonagall grew taller and infinitely more forbidding. Harry flinched out of reflex, having witnessed this change once before at the Dursleys’. The anger on the Scotswoman’s face immediately evaporated and was replaced with a sadness so deep that Harry thought she might drown in it. She knelt down, seeming to shrink back into herself, and wiped a tear from her cheek, but made no move to touch him. “I am so sorry, Harry.” Her voice was broken by a sniffle. “I will never raise a hand to you, I promise.” Harry was nonplussed. He didn’t know how she had guessed that the Dursleys were slightly more than unpleasant out of the public eye, but the warning that Uncle Vernon had given him, and the pain that followed, were never far from his mind. He shook his head frantically, trying to tell the woman that he had never been touched, much less mistreated, by his relatives. McGonagall’s eyes sharpened, and she looked at him with such intensity that he thought she very well may be looking straight into him. “Harry, I have been a teacher for many, many, years. I am well aware of the signs. Do not worry, I will not tell your relatives. However...” She paused, and looked thoughtful. After a moment, she nodded, and announced that she would be accompanying Harry back to his relatives’ home, and having a talk with them.

Harry’s time at the Dursleys’ following Professor McGonagall’s (Aunt Minerva, he thought with a quiet smile) visit had been quite peaceful, from a relative standpoint. The Scotswoman had rather sharply informed Petunia and Vernon that she had placed a health-monitoring charm on Harry, and that she would know if he were to become hurt, or overworked in any way. The air then became thick with a feeling of dread, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to grow larger. She had directed the Dursleys to “install Harry in a bedroom, as befitting his status as a human being” before the shadows returned to normal. Harry had never been more scared in his life, and had not referred to Petunia or Vernon as “Aunt” or “Uncle” since his new Aunt Minerva (the memory still gave him a strange, warm tingly feeling inside) had offered to become part of his family. He supposed that a small family, even a family of one, that cared about him was much better than what he had experienced at No. 4. 

Harry still had to do chores, no doubt about it, but he now got to eat his fair share, and had moved in to Dudley’s second bedroom - the room that had previously housed all of the large boy’s broken toys and belongings. He honestly wondered when the other shoe would drop, so to speak. Certainly he did not expect this remarkably good fortune to last.

He was right. Within a few days of Harry’s entrance into the world of magic, the Dursleys, clearly believing that McGonagall’s health-monitoring charm was just a clever bluff, began to ignore and isolate Harry once more. Barely a week later, it was his birthday. As Harry lay in bed counting down the minutes to midnight using Dudley’s old clock-radio, he wondered if Professor McGonagall’s spell really worked, or if she was too busy to come rescue him. With these thoughts running through his mind, he began to draw a picture of a birthday cake in the dust on the floor - the Dursleys refused to have Harry clean the room. Filth, apparently, was all he was fit to live in. As Harry finished his drawing, the clock beeped, indicating that it was now July 31. Harry blew the dust candles off of his dust cake. “Happy birthday to me...” He rolled over, hoping that this year would be better than the last. He wasn’t optimistic, and slowly drifted off to a fitful sleep.

Harry awoke to a gentle tapping on the door of his newly acquired room. Sitting up in his bed and taking stock, he found that the lumpy, used bed was still a great improvement over the cot in the cupboard. “Coming, Petunia,” he sighed, preparing for yet another day of hard work in the heat. As the young boy stepped out of his room, however, he noticed that instead of Petunia Dursley, there was stood Profess - “Aunt Minerva!” Harry was sure to be quiet, but couldn’t quite swallow his happy exclamation at seeing what he now considered to be his only family. “What are you doing here?”

The professor knelt down in front of him. “I am here to ask you if you’d rather live here, with your relatives, or perhaps with me.” Her voice was soft, and hesitant. “I can’t promise to be perfect, but I can say with certainty that you will be cared for.”

Harry gaped at her, hardly daring to believe that he might have a chance to leave Privet Drive. Slowly, his lips curled into a small smile. “I think I’d like to go with you, Aunt Minerva, if that’s OK.” He glanced down shyly. Then he grimaced, as a thought occurred to him. “Are we going to have to do that appearing thing again?”

The elder scotswoman’s mouth twitched. “Apparating, Harry, and to answer your question, yes. It isn’t the most amusing way to travel, I know, but it does have its uses.”

Harry grimaced. “Like what?”

Minerva’s face broke into a small, tight-lipped smile. Harry could see that his Aunt Minerva didn’t smile often, and he began to think of ways to make the woman who had rescued him from the Dursleys happy, but was jolted back to Earth as she continued to speak. “For one thing, it takes no time at all, Harry. Wizards and witches can appear in one place having left another with not a second in between.” Harry’s eyes widened, and McGonagall nodded. “I will admit that I had some trouble with that concept when I was learning apparition myself.” The tall woman held her hand out for Harry to take. Once the young boy had firmly grasped her elbow, the professor twisted, taking them both to the space between spaces. Harry’s last thought before leaving Number 4 was one of incredible gratitude that he had an aunt that cared for him now, at least.

Harry and Professor McGonagall appeared, with a soft pop, in front of a rather impressive set of wrought-iron gates. As Harry looked around, he noticed that he was no longer in the South of England, where he had grown up. He shivered as a brisk breeze slipped through his worn clothing, and turned to regard the professor. “Professor -” She turned a pointed gaze his way. “Sorry. Aunt Minerva, where are we?”

The Scot took a deep breath, and turned towards him, looking much more at home here, in the wilderness with her path barred by a rather impressive-looking gate set in an equally impressive wall, than she ever had in London. “Harry, we are very near Hogwarts. This, in fact, is the gate to the grounds. If you look closely, you can see the astronomy tower over the rise.” Harry peered through the gate, his eyes straining against his glasses. It was as she said: peeking over the top of the hill was what he could only describe as the tower of a castle. Minerva continued. “The castle of Hogwarts has stood for many an age, and has taught countless bairns how to harness their power. It is a rather impressive school, if I do say so myself, and certainly warmer inside than it is outside.” She passed a warm glance over Harry’s shivering form, and gestured to the gate, which opened, as if it had been waiting all along for just this movement from her. “Shall we?” Harry nodded, and followed her up the path, sparing a glance for the winged boars atop the pillars of the wall as he passed.


End file.
